


Too Hot

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista Bertolt, Fist Fights, Gen, M/M, Past Lives, Reibert - Freeform, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1905636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertolt isn’t the best barista.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr Anon Prompt: "Barista!AU with Reibert, pleease"
> 
> Wow, I finally wrote some version of a coffee shop AU. It was only a matter of time. >.>

Bertolt isn’t the best barista. He always serves the coffee when it’s still too hot, and usually, he’s too shy to ask customers if they want anything else to go with their beverage. This has relegated him to cleaning duties and made his ability to reach things on high shelves his number one achievement.

Up until recently, half the staff called him "Berlolt" because of a misspelled name tag. (He still wears it without complaint.) This went on until one of his kinder coworkers—a young, blond man by the name of Armin—had corrected them sternly. Now, everyone calls him plain, old "Bertolt," but he actually goes by Bertl, even if no one knows it.

Bertolt’s most hated day of the month is when they get their new sales pitch from corporate. For every customer that comes through, they’re supposed to recite the line: _“Would you like to try our special flavoring of the month for only twenty-five cents extra?”_

Bertolt gets flustered asking whether someone wants sugar in their coffee, much less throwing out a sales pitch.

He can’t mop the floors and clean the tables forever, though. Eventually, he gets put on the roster as the barista on shift, and he ends up there for a torturous eight hours, mumbling things about flavorings and quarters until someone asks if he’s ill.

He wants to quit. He really does. But he can’t afford to do that since he set off to the big city to make something of himself, and his hometown won’t accept him if he just comes back as ordinary. 

At least that’s how he sees it.

One night, he’s on another horrific shift, and the customers are extra cranky since it’s raining outside. It’s a late spring evening, and everyone just wants to get their coffee or tea and get out.

Bertolt tries not to bite his lip as he takes each order. He’s not actually bad at his job by any stretch of the imagination—quite the opposite—but talking isn’t his strong suit.

“HicanIhelpyou?” he mumbles, looking down at the baked goods intently, “Wouldyoulike—” he coughs as if it will make the words come out faster and the moment pass more quickly, “—totry... um, for a quarter you can try a flavor.”

He’s already got the cup in his hand, waiting for the sharp snap of “no” and “give me what I want,” but instead, he hears a deep, calm laugh.

“Do you have to say that to everyone?”

Bertolt looks up in surprise to see a muscular blond-haired man wearing a soaked green t-shirt; he very pointedly does not look at the guy’s shoulders or chest, though. The last thing he needs is to give his coworkers yet another reason for why he’s different and awkward.

“Um, yeah,” he blurts out, tilting his head to the side curiously. No one’s ever actually asked him that before.

“That sucks,” the guy replies, smiling a little. He’s got a nice smile, and it makes Bertolt feel safe, like there’s not twenty angry assholes behind him in line. “Can I get a black coffee... and, if you could, make it extra hot.”

“That’s something I’m actually good at,” Bertolt replies. Then his eyes widen in surprise at his statement, and possibly the first joke he’s ever made while on shift. “Uh, what’s your name?”

“Reiner,” the guys says. “Why, you have to write it on the cup?”

In fact, Bertolt does not have to do that at all; he just wants to know.

“Yeah,” he stammers, "that's exactly it."

He writes “Reiner” neatly in small capital letters, and suddenly, it sounds familiar. 

“Oh,” Reiner adds, plucking at his sopping t-shirt with a grimace. He undoubtedly just got caught in the rain without an umbrella. “Can you make it two?”

“Sure,” Bertolt replies. “Same?”

“I think so,” Reiner replies cryptically. “At least, that’ll do it for this afternoon.”

“Okay. You can pay down there...”

Much to Bertolt’s disappointment, Reiner-the-friendly-customer continues down the line, and Bertolt is left once again with the hoard of angry, demanding patrons. He continues to mumble about syrups and quarters, and his mind shifts once again into autopilot, even though his hands are efficient.

An hour later, it’s almost quitting time, and he’s finally getting ready to close up and leave. Armin has already offered to do all the hard stuff, shooting Bertolt a sympathetic look. 

Every day by this time, he’s haggard and exhausted, even though he knows it only shows in his eyes, and only a few people notice.

“You want me to clear out the stragglers?” Armin asks kindly.

Bertolt sighs and gives him a tired, small smile. “It’s okay—I’ll do it.”

Armin nods and pats him on the shoulder.

There are only a few people still leftover in the small cafe—mostly kids on laptops and older people who had one cup of tea two hours earlier and are still there—but then Bertolt stops in his tracks as he rounds the corner.

The cafe itself is mainstream and corporate, with all the tables lined up in a uniform manner, even though the layout is a poor attempt at looking like a European coffee house. There's a small alcove, though, near the door where a single table is shoved. Bertolt likes to take his break there, since no one bothers him, even though his long legs barely fit.

However, now he finds Reiner sitting there. He’s holding the cup that Bertolt wrote his name on in one hand, with the other cup positioned across from him in front of an empty chair.

Bertolt immediately feels mortified—both for finding him sitting there, obviously having been stood up, but also, because Bertolt immediately has to fight the urge to fill that empty chair.

“Uh,” he says, not even meaning to speak, “we’re closing now.”

Reiner looks up at him, but instead of looking discouraged or embarrassed, he smiles.

“Hi, Berlolt,” he says in an easy voice. “So, are you going to drink this coffee?”

“What?” Bertolt says, blinking.

Reiner smiles again, but now he looks down with a sheepish expression. “I was hoping you’d get off shift and have a cup of coffee with me.”

Bertolt is relatively sure his eyes can’t get any wider.

“It’s Bertl,” he blurts out after a minute. “I mean...” he laughs nervously, wrapping his arms around himself, “it’s Bertolt. Someone mistyped the name tag... but um, everyone calls me Bertl.”

Everyone who means something, that is.

“This sounds weird, Bertl,” Reiner says quietly, looking up to meet Bertolt’s eyes, “but I feel like we’ve met before.”

“Me too,” Bertolt replies immediately in a soft voice before he can stop himself. He’s lost in Reiner’s calm expression and the way his arms are resting on the table, strong but very deliberate. “Um, I mean...”

They’re both blushing, and finally, Reiner stands up, grabbing the cup that's still full of coffee (and probably still warm, since Bertolt always serves it too hot to begin with).

Bertolt blushes even harder when Reiner plucks the pen nimbly that’s tucked into the apron, and writes on the cup that isn’t his: “Bertl.”

“I’ll hold it for you,” he says, sliding the pen back into Bertolt’s apron. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Five,” Bertolt replies, not fighting the smile now. “Meet you outside?”

Reiner pats him on the shoulder, sending sparks along Bertolt’s arm. “Sounds good.”

Bertolt watches as Reiner walks out the door with the coffee, and then stands patiently just outside of it, looking off into the night sky.

“Make it two minutes,” Bertolt says quietly to himself, smiling slightly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was going to be a fun one shot, but of course, I had to make it longer. ;_;
> 
> THIS IS MY CURSE.

Reiner waits for Bertolt every day after that. They fall into a routine easily—Bertolt will sit with Reiner at the alcove table (fast becoming “their” table) during his break, and then, at the end of his shift, they sometimes share a dessert from the case.

They never go anywhere else. Bertolt is relatively sure that Reiner’s only seen him without an apron once—the first time they met—but he’s fine with that.

Bertolt is a shy and private person, which is why he likes spending time with Reiner. There’s no pressure in those moments to do anything except drink coffee and talk about anything that comes to mind.

Bertolt learns that Reiner likes kids, and he has a few nieces and nephews whom he adores. Reiner learns that Bertolt knows a lot more about coffee that he lets on—that he’s smart and has an excellent memory, despite the fact that all of his coworkers—save Armin—think he’s slow, because he never speaks.

This all goes along very smoothly and enjoyably, until one particular afternoon.

The bell above the door tinkles merrily, and Bertolt immediately looks up in excitement; Reiner always arrives at the same time.

However, today, he’s immediately rendered speechless; there in front of him stands Reiner Braun, with his amazing arms and kind expression that currently mottled by a very nasty black eye.

“Hey,” Reiner says from the other side of the counter, smiling at Bertolt the way he always does. “You almost on break?”

Bertolt is too busy staring with a horrified look at Reiner’s damaged face, and it seems to take a minute for Reiner to register the look.

“Oh, this?” he asks nonchalantly, cracking a sheepish smile as he points at his eye. “Um, it’s from my job.”

“Your job?” Bertolt exclaims. Something is twisting in his gut violently as he stares at the side of Reiner’s face, all black and blue and red; he realizes after a moment that it’s protectiveness.

“Let me tell you over coffee.”

Bertolt sighs, giving Reiner a rare outward look of concern, but nods. He’s tense and messes up a few orders, staring unabashedly at Reiner’s back as he sits down at their table to wait.

“Hey, Hoover,” says an impatient voice, “hurry it up. You’ve already fucked up three orders.”

He immediately neutralizes his expression and withdraws into himself as he turns.

Ymir is busy with the espresso machine, holding two empty cups in her left hand at once as she prepares another order with her right.

“Sorry,” Bertolt mumbles, feeling embarrassed and looking at the floor.

“You’re usually on point,” Ymir remarks unexpectedly. “What the hell?”

“I’ll have a scone, for the _second_ time,” a dyspeptic looking woman says in an annoyed voice, rolling her eyes and huffing.

“Nothing,” Bertolt replies. 

He turns abruptly to grab a scone out of the baked goods case, and then stiffens in surprise when Ymir fires back, “Your boyfriend got his face messed up pretty bad, huh?”

“He’s not my _boyfriend_ ,” Bertolt practically squeaks, his face starting to burn as he hastily wraps the scone in paper and then slips it into a bag. “He’s my... friend.”

Ymir snorts as she slides the finished drink down to Bertolt to snap the lid onto and starts on the other two. “Yeah, okay. He’s here, like, every day, hot shot.”

She rolls her eyes derisively, then squints at Bertolt, not even watching what she’s doing as her deft hands continue to make the order.

After a moment, she quirks a skeptical eyebrow. “He’s really not your boyfriend?”

“Uh, no,” Bertolt replies, biting his lip. “I mean... really not.”

Ymir snorts in disbelief, but then gives him a friendly punch in the arm as she sprinkles cinnamon into both lattes. “Whatever. I hear you—I’d be pretty upset if anybody messed up Christa.”

Christa is Ymir’s blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel of a girlfriend who almost the entire staff refuses to believe is actually dating Ymir. 

Of course, this was finally confirmed one day, when Christa had kissed Ymir. It was also confirmed that, although Christa was definitely heaven-sent and probably coughed up fairy dust on a regular basis, she was a certifiable bad ass after an obnoxious guy wouldn’t leave her alone.

To put it simply: no one knows now whether to be afraid of Christa or Ymir, although Bertolt can’t help but default to Ymir. Christa is unerringly sweet, unless she has to fight back out of self-defense.

Bertolt’s thoughts turn back to Reiner, though, his eyes wandering over to the table again where the subject of his thoughts is patiently waiting. Bertolt feels something flutter in his stomach when he notices—for the thousandth time—how broad and strong Reiner’s shoulders are, like he could carry the world there and not even break a sweat.

The exact opposite of Bertolt, in more ways than one.

“God, _fine_ ,” Ymir hisses at him, setting the completed orders on the counter, “go sit with lover boy and stop messing up.”

“He’s not—”

“Whatever,” Ymir interjects, pointing at Bertolt. “Just don’t be late getting back. I’m meeting Christa for lunch on my break, and I don’t want to miss out on a single minute. Got me, Berlolt?”

“Yup,” Bertolt gulps.

He always forgets that he has to actually look _down_ to meet Ymir’s eyes, because it seems as though he’s always staring straight up with his head craned back and the base of his skull pressed against his spine.

Ymir also still thinks his name is Berlolt; needless to say, he hasn’t corrected her.

As soon as he goes into the back and takes off his apron, he feels elated, knowing he’s about to go spend a blissful 45 minutes with Reiner. It’s amazing how happy it makes him feel when all they’re doing is sitting together in a coffee shop.

But then a dark cloud settles over his mood when he thinks of Reiner’s face. Would it be impolite to just ask about it? Is it too personal?

Bertolt debates fiercely over the conundrum in his head as he walks out into the cafe, fidgeting with the collar of the button-up shirt he’s wearing. He’s also hoping desperately that there aren’t two big sweat stains under the arms. He swings by the counter again to grab two cups of black coffee, and then makes his way over to their usual table.

“Hey,” he says, giving that small smile that he’s realized is reserved solely for Reiner. “Um, thanks for coming.”

Bertolt thanks Reiner for coming _every time_ , as if it’s surprising that Reiner has shown up yet again. Reiner always tells him it’s nothing, and Bertolt is starting to feel increasingly silly saying it, since it’s the third week that Reiner has consistently come in to spend time with him. And he comes every day.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Reiner replies with an easy smile as Bertolt sits down across from him.

For a moment, Bertolt isn’t sure why Reiner is looking at him in trepidation, until Bertolt realizes he’s been staring unabashedly at Reiner’s black eye.

“I might as well just talk about it now,” Reiner sighs, his face becoming serious.

“No, you don’t have to!” Bertolt replies, taking a nervous sip of his too-hot coffee. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to stare. Um, never mind.”

Reiner shakes his head, the small, sheepish smile returning in response to Bertolt’s panic, as if he knew it was coming. “Don’t be sorry. I know it looks pretty bad.”

He gingerly reaches up to touch the nasty looking bruise on his left eye. From this close, Bertolt can see it’s actually swollen shut in addition to being several very unnatural colors. It contrasts dramatically with Reiner’s pale skin and blond hair.

Before Bertolt knows what he’s saying, he blurts out with great concern, “Are you okay?” Then, immediately feels mortified at the serious tone in his voice, as if Reiner really is his boyfriend.

Reiner smiles at him reassuringly and shrugs a little. “I’m fine. It hurts like a bitch, but I’m not in harm’s way.”

“Did you fall or something?”

“Uh, no.”

Bertolt cocks his head to the side curiously; he can sense Reiner doesn’t want to talk about it, but he can’t help himself. If someone is hurting Reiner—as unlikely as that seems, given Reiner’s size—he wants to know about it. (Translation: Bertolt wants to kill the offender with his bare hands.) Bertolt has also learned over the years that even if someone is big and strong, it doesn’t mean they’re not fallible.

“What do you do for a living?” Bertolt asks suddenly, remembering Reiner’s strange comment about his job. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

There’s a short silence, and Reiner takes a slow, cautious sip of his coffee; it gives Bertolt the urge to smile, because Reiner already knows that it’s probably going to be scalding hot. Finally, after a moment, he speaks. 

“If I tell you, I don’t know if you’ll want to have coffee with me anymore,” he says quietly, looking down at the table. “It’s not exactly... honorable.”

“I won’t judge you,” he replies immediately. And he really won’t.

Reiner gives him an evaluative look, his mouth set into a hard line and a frown creasing his forehead. Bertolt just lets him think, and then finally, Reiner sighs.

“I’m a boxer,” he finally replies. “But, uh, not the kind who really competes for the joy of the sport.”

“That’s where the bruise is from, then,” Bertolt says with raised eyebrows, putting two and two together.

“I don’t know why,” Reiner says suddenly, looking up to stare directly into Bertolt’s eyes, “but I want to tell you everything about myself, Bertl.”

Bertolt smiles shyly, looking down and playing with the top of his coffee cup idly. Some part of him is screaming at himself to stop being such an idiot; the other part is too bowled over by Reiner’s entire personality to care.

“Um, okay,” he replies. “You can tell me.”

Reiner just looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“The bad stuff, too,” Bertolt adds softly, “if you want.”

Reiner shifts in his seat, and Bertolt’s eyes are immediately drawn to his chest. He’s wearing a tight navy t-shirt today that pulls across his chest and shoulders, and then Bertolt’s eyes travel up the line of his neck to the strong, square jaw. He looks really good, and Bertolt licks his lips.

“I’ll let you decide if you want to get to know me better after I tell you about my job,” Reiner replies cautiously.

“You’re a boxer,” Bertolt says, confused at the meaning of the words since Reiner just said what he did.

“Yeah,” Reiner confirms, “I’m a boxer—a professional fighter, in fact—but, uh...”

Bertolt nods in encouragement for him to continue.

Reiner leans forward, and all Bertolt can think is that Reiner smells _really_ good—masculine, with just a hint of sweat mixed with aftershave.

“What?” he prompts, trying not to let his eyes slip shut.

“I throw fights,” Reiner finally blurts out, keeping his voice low. “That’s what I do. I _professionally_ throw fights to make a living.”

“You throw fights?” Bertolt repeats dumbly. Then, his eyes widen, and he blinks in surprise. “ _Oh_... you...”

Reiner immediately pulls back with a mortified face and refuses to meet Bertolt’s eyes, looking downright ashamed.

“It’s not exactly a noble profession, but it pays the bills.” He gives a shrug, and he’s wearing a closed expression. “Doesn’t make me a great person, though.”

Bertolt shakes his head and frowns. “That’s not true—everyone does what they need to. We can’t always be honorable or true to ourselves.”

Reiner looks up in surprise, studying Bertolt closely.

“Well,” he finally replies, his voice cautious, “I’ll warn you now: every time I throw a fight, I’ll end up looking like this.” He points critically to his messed up eye and makes a fist to show the skinned knuckles. “So, if you don’t mind that...”

It takes a moment for the true meaning of Reiner’s commentary to register in Bertolt’s mind. Why would he mind? It’s not as if he’s...

“You want to keep showing up?” Bertolt gulps hesitantly. “I mean...”

“I want to hang out with you outside of work,” Reiner says softly, that warm smile back now that he’s unloaded what is apparently a heavy burden. 

“Um,” Bertolt replies, his throat suddenly dry, “okay.”

When Reiner’s face lights up, though, Bertolt feels fractionally less panicked; then, excitement starts to eclipse his typical anxiety.

Reiner is grinning maniacally now, looking like he just won the lottery. “Pick you up at your place tomorrow at seven?”

Bertolt is too busy with the unfamiliar feeling of excitement and joy rising in his chest to think closely about details.

“Yeah,” he says, not bothering to fight the smile. “That sounds good.”

He writes his address down on a napkin, and as Reiner takes it, their fingers brush together in a way that’s obviously very deliberate on Reiner’s part. When Bertolt’s breath catches, Reiner just smiles, his face softening with outright affection.

He rises to stand and stretch his arms, knowing that Bertolt’s break is just about up. Bertolt just stares dumbly as his shoulders flex.

“See you tomorrow, Bertl,” he says, slipping the address into his pocket.

Bertolt stands, too, and then smiles and nods. “See you tomorrow.”

It’s right around the time that Bertolt’s pulling his apron back on to finish his shift that the panic sets in—Reiner is going to see where and how he lives, which is in no way flattering.

Bertolt feels vaguely nauseous, but forces himself to finish his shift and not cancel at the last minute.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And one last hurrah with the final part! Thanks for reading along! <3

Bertolt is usually nervous, but he’s rarely disappointed. He doesn’t get his hopes up for many things, but he was actually looking forward to the date with Reiner. At least, he’s pretty sure it was a date, anyway.

And then, just before his shift ended at five p.m. and he was about to run home to wait for Reiner (and probably change his outfit three times), he’d received a text:

 **From: Reiner Braun**  
4:58 p.m.  
 _hey bertl... sorry cant make 2nite. something came up @ work... will u meet me next week? :-( im really sorry_

Of course Reiner had canceled—Bertolt thinks as he grinds coffee rather vehemently—because he realized he’d made a mistake inviting Bertolt out for a real date.

But then Bertolt frowns, pulling out his phone again to look at the text. He’s not sure why, but it strikes him as odd.

Just as he’s thinking about what to reply with, his phone chimes again.

 **From: Reiner Braun**  
4:59 p.m.  
 _i really need 2 talk 2 u before the match... i hope u can forgive me. meet me at the gym @6_

Bertolt frowns at the message in confusion, cocking his head to the side.

 **From: Reiner Braun**  
4:59 p.m.  
 _oops! sorry wrong person... guess youre in my thoughts. pls text me back if you want to... i understand if not_

Now Bertolt is completely torn—maybe Reiner really did have something come up with work. Then again, judging from what he’d said about his job and that second text that wasn’t even intended for Bertolt, he feels an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

Bertolt is not an impulsive person. He’s cautious, retiring, and withdrawn; but he also has good instincts, and right now, they’re screaming that something is wrong. 

When he finally texts back, he tries to assuage his fears.

 **To: Reiner Braun**  
5:02 p.m.  
 _hey it’s ok but... are you all right?_

He presses send before he can change his mind, and bites his lip as he just stares at his phone in trepidation, unsure whether he’s worried for Reiner or himself.

Almost immediately, his phone chimes again.

 **From: Reiner Braun**  
5:02 p.m.  
 _dont worry im fine :)_

 **To: Reiner Braun**  
5:02 p.m.  
 _are you sure?_

There’s no answer after a few minutes, and Bertolt kicks himself for being so dramatic. 

He tries not to think too hard as he hangs up his apron and grabs his bag out of his locker, throwing it over his shoulder and stuffing his phone inside, trying not to let his throat tighten.

It’s not even a big deal—it’s just a date with some guy he met at a coffee shop. 

Only it’s not. It’s something more; he just can’t put his finger on what. 

Nevertheless, he tries to put it out of his mind as he trudges back to his apartment. It’s really not much—just a hole in the wall in Trost that he could afford to share with roommates he never sees. He’s relatively sure that they think he eats people in his spare time since he’s so antisocial. Making friends is not one of Bertolt’s strong points.

His bedroom is pretty pathetic, too. It’s comprised of a mattress that’s seen better days on the floor, a rudimentary bedside table (or, as some might call it, a milk crate) with a small lamp and old-fashioned alarm clock. He has a freestanding clothing rack that’s about to fall over and a dresser that came with the room.

There’s one picture on top of it, though—his childhood best friend, Marcel, who died in a car crash when they were still very young. They have their arms around each other, looking at the camera with big grins. 

“Hey,” Bertolt says quietly, dropping his bag on his bed and grabbing the picture as he also collapses on the mattress. “Today was so weird.”

Sometimes, if he’s had a particularly stressful day, he’ll talk to Marcel.

“I had this date and then the guy cancelled...” He looks at Marcel’s smiling face, and remembers what it looked like half caved in. “And I just have a really bad feeling.”

He bites his lip. He had a bad feeling on that day, too, when they’d climbed into the car. Bertolt was there in the backseat, and it just so happened that when a woman so drunk she was incoherent had smashed into the side of the car, it was Marcel’s side. He’d died on impact.

Bertolt sighs and shrugs at the picture, placing it on the bedside table and lying down on his side.

“I really like him,” he confesses softly to the two smiling faces. “I don’t know what to do.”

There aren’t any answers in the photograph, and Bertolt sighs. He realizes, though, that but there _are_ answers in the past—that he should have heeded his fears that day, even as a kid.

“So,” he says quietly, “if I’m really going to be this crazy... and go after him... where do I even start?”

He sits up to root around in his bag for his phone, studying at the text message exchange. Reiner had mentioned the gym in the mysterious text not intended for Bertolt, and he frowns slightly. That rings a bell. Obviously, he would assume it’s the gym that Reiner also boxes at, but he doesn’t know which one it is.

He scowls down at his phone, feeling more than ever that he needs to do something as he reads Reiner’s name again. 

Suddenly, his eyes widen as he goes for his bag again, feeling around the bottom. He’s not imagining things, and finds what he’s looking for after a moment.

When Reiner had written down his phone number after their first week of talking to each other, he’d pulled out a card and scrawled it on the back in his messy handwriting.

Bertolt still has it, and he flips it over to look at the front.

“Titans Gym,” he reads aloud, raising an eyebrow. Fitting name, really. The card also has the address, and he contemplates checking it out; he immediately feels silly, but then something starts to twist in his stomach.

He has to go; everything in him is screaming at him to leave right now.

So he does, barely taking the time to remember to grab his coat as he dashes out the door with only his phone and keys in his pocket.

= = =

The place is pretty unassuming when Bertolt stops in front of it. It’s just a one story building with a peeling facade, announcing in block letters “TITANS GYM.” When he pushes the doors open and steps inside, he tries to breathe normally, looking around cautiously.

There’s not much happening, though, and no one seems to even take much notice of him. There’s an older man smoking a cigarette, hunched over a newspaper in a far corner, and someone mopping the floor. A few people are sparring in the ring, and overall, the place is pretty uneventful.

Bertolt looks down at his phone. It’s six p.m. on the dot, and to his own mortification, he realizes that he’s actually right on time to meet whoever Reiner is supposed to be meeting, too. He’s really hoping they don’t run into each other, when he hears yelling coming from the other side of the large space.

He doesn’t think; he just strides over, and his heart nearly stops when he recognizes Reiner’s low, calm voice, obviously trying to calm someone soothe someone else.

And then, as Bertolt rounds the corner, there’s a sick crack and a very familiar, muscular body hits the floor, lying at the feet of an enraged young man with large, green eyes, an anger sparking that’s almost uncanny in its intensity.

Reiner is lying on the floor seemingly out cold, wearing only a pair of boxing shorts; and then, the guy goes after him again, kicking Reiner in the ribs.

Bertolt doesn’t think; he just does. He puts himself in between the aggressor and Reiner, pushing into the path and shoving the guy away with all his strength. 

Which, to put it lightly, is not insubstantial if he aims the right way. And he aims well as the other man goes careening backward and nearly brains himself on the edge of a chair.

He gets up just as fast, though, and takes two bold steps forward just before clocking Bertolt right in the jaw, before turning and fleeing. Against two of them—even with Reiner injured—he doesn’t stand a chance. 

“Reiner,” Bertolt murmurs, gently resting his hands on Reiner’s shoulder blades. He’s so still, but he’s breathing. “Hey,” Bertolt repeats, carefully rolling him onto his side.

“Bertl?” he groans softly, trying to open his eyes and frowning.

“Can you sit up?” Bertolt replies softly. 

“Yeah,” Reiner confirms, slowly sitting up, but he’s obviously dizzy. Bertolt steadies him and waits.

“Did you just show up here?” he asks suddenly.

“Yeah,” Bertolt confirms, feeling silly but also relieved that he did. “I had a bad feeling. I’ll explain later. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Yeah,” Reiner murmurs.

“Can you stand? Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Reiner repeats. “Just...” He bites his lip and looks embarrassed, but forces out the words anyway. “Can you help me?”

“Yeah,” Bertolt replies.

With Bertolt’s help, Reiner manages to slowly make it to the locker room and they retrieve his things.

“You’re really banged up,” Bertolt says in concern as he helps Reiner pull a t-shirt over his head. He can’t help the way his fingers immediately grazes over a bruise forming on Reiner’s shoulder, before pulling back abruptly. “Um, I want to help.”

“It’s okay, I don’t need—” Reiner starts, looking down in embarrassment.

“You’re hurt,” Bertolt interjects uncharacteristically, his lips flattening into a thin line. He gives Reiner a troubled look, frowning, and sighs. “What happened?”

He doesn’t want to ask necessarily, but at this point, they’re past tact.

Reiner stands with a heavy sigh and hangs his head, but doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he eyes Bertolt’s jaw—which Bertolt can already feel starting to swell—and then looks dismayed.

“He got you pretty good,” he remarks, cringing.

Bertolt immediately shies back, shrugging minutely and looking down. “It’s nothing.”

“My place is only two blocks away,” Reiner says suddenly, retrieving the rest of his things out of the gym locker. “I have enough first aid supplies to stock a hospital.” He gives a wry laugh and shrugs, then winces.

Bertolt is torn between saying yes or just bowing out, now that he knows Reiner is okay; but his mind is immediately changed when Reiner loses his balance momentarily. He looks like he’s going to black out as his hand hits the metal locker with a loud clang as he steadies himself.

“Yeah,” Bertolt agrees, not commenting on the action, “that sounds good. Do you need to go to the hospital?” He gingerly touches his own jaw and realizes there’s a little dried blood there; that’s going to be hard to explain away to his coworkers.

“No, I think I’m okay,” Reiner replies. “He punched me right in the face first, so... I guess I’m still a little woozy, but I don’t have a head injury.”

“Okay,” Bertolt nods. “I guess... let’s go.”

They walk in silence down the dark street toward Reiner’s apartment. Bertolt steals a few looks over Reiner under the streetlights, feeling a pang since one cheekbone is cut and the other side of his face is already turning black and blue.

Reiner’s building is small but nice, and Bertolt tries not to be obvious about how curious he is. It’s not as if Reiner is in a particularly observant state, though, so Bertolt takes the liberty to look around. There’s a nonfunctional small stone fountain in the front courtyard and a simple lock on the main door. It’s an old building, but it’s interesting—much unlike Bertolt’s own apartment.

“Elevator’s broken,” Reiner grunts with a grimace. “Gotta take the stairs. I’m on the fifth floor.”

“Can you make it?” Bertolt asks bluntly.

Reiner hesitates, as if he wants to just say yes, but then he sighs and replies quietly, “I might need to take a break.”

Bertolt tries to smile a little, even though the entire situation is getting more and more surreal—the evening started with plans for a first date and has ended with an injured Bertolt helping a more severely injured Reiner into his apartment. 

“That’s okay,” he says simply, trying to sound reassuring.

Reiner doesn’t need to take a break, which heartens Bertolt about his condition. Reiner fishes around for his keys when they finally reach the heavy door, and it swings open.

The place is simple without much in the way of decoration, but somehow, it’s very Reiner.

It also might just be the way it smells—comforting, like a home should smell. There’s the scent of aftershave, or maybe cologne, mixed in with laundry detergent. It’s clean and fresh—welcoming.

“So,” Bertolt starts awkwardly as the door shuts behind them. “Where’s the first aid stuff?”

Reiner gives him a wry, embarrassed smile and points at the bathroom. “I’ll get it.”

As he disappears, Bertolt takes another quick glance around the room. The one thing that strikes him as odd is that there aren’t any pictures on the wall; it makes the apartment seem very empty and lonely, even though Bertolt was just thinking about how much it seemed like a home.

It’s then he realizes that he associated “home” with Reiner himself.

Reiner reappears with an armful of things; there really is enough to stock a hospital.

“Okay,” Bertolt declares, sounding more confident than he is, “let me help.”

Reiner doesn’t bother arguing this time, and just shrugs; but the motion of his shoulder inspires a pained, frustrated sound.

Bertolt doesn’t comment, setting the first aid supplies on the table and motioning for Reiner to sit on the couch.

It’s beat up and has obviously been around for a while, and when Reiner sighs and takes a seat, Bertolt smiles a little. He pictures Reiner lounging here, reading a book or sending texts, taking naps.

“Bertl?” Reiner asks, turning to look at Bertolt.

“Oh, sorry,” Bertolt says in embarrassment, clearing his throat and trying not to blush. “Um, okay, why don’t you take off your shirt. I’ll put some ointment on the bruises and ice it, okay?”

“Okay,” Reiner nods in agreement, pulling his t-shirt off over his head.

Bertolt’s never actually seen Reiner without a shirt, though he’s wondered extensively.

Very extensively.

Especially at night in his bed, with his hand down his—

“Okay,” he says, his voice climbing an octave, “let me get to work.” 

They’re both quiet and Bertolt settles behind Reiner on the couch, snapping on a pair of gloves from the first aid kit as he sticks some bandages over a few small cuts, no doubt inflicted when Reiner had hit the floor.

“Here,” he says, handing a cold pack he just cracked over Reiner’s shoulder, “put that on your ribs.”

“Mhm,” Reiner hums, accepting it and pressing it to his undoubtedly sore ribs.

“So...” Bertolt starts carefully, smoothing some salve over a bad bruise, trying to make his fingers light, “can I ask... what happened?”

He feels intrusive saying it, but he’s curious enough to do it anyway.

Reiner doesn’t hesitate to share this time, though, and he sighs. “You know how I told you I throw fights?”

“Yeah...” Bertolt replies uncertainly.

“That text I accidentally sent you?” he says, his voice growing softer as he shifts and presses the cold pack to the other side of his body. “It was for the guy I was supposed to fight tonight. Basically... well,” he sighs again, more heavily this time, and he sounds downright weary, “he’s a good guy. Fair fighter, has a kid... I just couldn’t take the guilt anymore.”

“So, you told him the truth?”

“Yeah,” Reiner replies in a soft, ashamed voice. “And he flipped out. Went completely berserk. I deserved it, too, but I didn’t think it would be as bad as it was.”

Bertolt is done, and he gently pats Reiner’s shoulder.

“He could’ve killed you,” he replies after a moment, resisting the urge to top off his care with a kiss against the back of Reiner’s head. The instinct is so strong he almost actually does it, but then controls himself at the last moment.

“I guess,” Reiner says with a shrug. “I deserved at least a beating.”

“You did not,” Bertolt immediately retorts, the emotional tone in his voice surprising even him.

Reiner sighs, but doesn’t contradict Bertolt. He turns around, and Bertolt immediately feels his face heat as a set of strong, steady fingers gently touch his jaw on the uninjured side, tipping his head slightly.

“I’m so sorry, Bertl,” he says after a moment, shaking his head. “How did you even...” Reiner raises an eyebrow, but Bertolt is put at ease when he realizes the look isn’t critical, so much as baffled.

“Um, well...” he starts, pulling away to stand up and avoid Reiner’s gaze. “I just... had a bad feeling. And then I put your text together with that card you gave me with your number...” He trails off, until finally looking up to meet Reiner’s eyes. “I have a history with bad feelings, and I didn’t want to ignore it. And I was right.”

“Yeah,” Reiner agrees, “I guess you were.”

“So... what are you going to do?” Bertolt asks, his eyebrows raising.

“Well,” Reiner replies diplomatically, “there’s not much I can do now. I’m definitely out of a job.” He shrugs slightly. “I guess it’s not a huge loss, right? I couldn’t deal with the guilt anymore anyway. But right now?”

He smiles a little, his eyes squinting slightly with such a caring look, it makes Bertolt blush.

“I’m going to patch you up in return.”

“Um,” Bertolt chokes, taking two steps back, “that’s okay. You don’t have to do that.”

Reiner just looks at him with an unwavering gaze, and then follows. “It’s not a big deal,” he says reassuringly. “Your jaw really needs help, Bertl. It looks pretty bad.”

Bertolt cringes, but finally gives a defeated little nod. “Okay,” he whispers.

He and Reiner switch places, though he does keep his shirt on, and Reiner gingerly looks at his jaw. “He got you good,” he finally concludes. “Let me put some ice on it, but that’s about all you can do.”

“Okay,” Bertolt nods as he accepts an ice pack. Then, to his surprise, there’s a motion instructing him to turn around with his back to Reiner. 

“Um,” he stammers, keeping the ice pack pressed to his face, “what are you doing?”

“I want to make sure it’s just your jaw,” Reiner says, resting two strong hands on Bertolt’s shoulders, “and that nothing else got messed up in your neck, okay?”

“Yeah, all right,” Bertolt finally agrees. He can’t help the way his eyes slide shut as soon as Reiner runs a few fingers over his neck.

Then he feels a familiar pattern being traced, and he tenses.

“Sorry,” Reiner immediately says, pulling away. “I didn’t mean to...”

“It’s okay,” Bertolt replies softly, desperately hoping for the return of Reiner’s sure, steady touch. “Um, if you want to know what the scar is, I’ll tell you.”

“Well,” Reiner replies hesitantly, resting his hands back on Bertolt’s shoulders, “um... I can’t say I’m not curious. It’s a pretty big scar.”

Bertolt reaches around to touch the back of his neck and trace the long slice of scar tissue there. “I was in a car accident with my friend when we were eight,” he says flatly. “He died on impact, and I got a pretty nasty cut. It’s a miracle I’m alive.”

“Wow,” Reiner breathes, bringing his fingers up to trace the scar along the back of Bertolt’s neck gently, “that’s... I’m glad...” His breath catches, and Bertolt’s eyes widen. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Bertolt says with a dismissive shrug.

Feeling bold, he turns around to face Reiner and meet his eyes. “I’m glad I found you,” he says suddenly. “Um, tonight, and...”

“In general,” Reiner finishes in a soft, tender voice.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then finally¬— _finally_ —Reiner leans forward to press his lips hesitantly against Bertolt’s.

Reiner’s lips are surprisingly soft, and Bertolt’s eyes slip shut without his permission. It feels like everything is warm and perfect; but most of all, it just feels _right_.

That is, until Reiner touches the bad side of Bertolt’s jaw without thinking, and Bertolt’s grip clamps down on Reiner’s upper arm, and they both pull apart with barks of pain, holding their respective body parts in agony.

Their eyes meet, and there’s an awkward silence, until Reiner starts to laugh. His laugh gets louder, and then Bertolt starts to laugh, too, until they’re both laughing together and shaking their heads.

“Fate is working against us,” Reiner remarks after a minute between little peals of quiet laughter.

“Or maybe...” Bertolt starts, but then feels silly and stops talking.

“Yeah?” Reiner prompts, his face more serious, as if he has a guess about what Bertolt’s going to say.

“Maybe it’s just bad luck catching up, because...”

“...We got to meet each other,” Reiner finishes softly. “Like we were supposed to.”

“Yeah,” Bertolt replies in a whisper. “Exactly.”

“That’s all we get,” Reiner says, a soft, sweet smile on his face. “I’m okay with that.”

“Me too,” Bertolt murmurs, looking down shyly at his hands as his face heats. But he feels good.

“Hey,” Reiner says, standing up and holding out his hand, “so, it’s supposed to be our first date, right?”

Bertolt bites his lip and looks up at Reiner expectantly, before accepting the hand and standing up, too.

“Is it?” he asks quietly.

Reiner smiles at him, and leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Yeah,” he replies simply.

“I don’t think I should go home,” Bertolt blurts out. “Um, you’re still hurt... and what if you need something...”

“I don’t want you to go home,” Reiner agrees, reaching out to curl his hand around the back of Bertolt’s neck and pull him closer. “Why don’t you stay here and get some rest?”

Bertolt swallows hard, and cringes as his jaw throbs. “I kind of need it,” he admits.

“Yeah,” Reiner laughs softly, “I mean real rest. Like, going to sleep for real. Even though...” his voice is more serious now, deep and rough, as he gets close to Bertolt’s ear, “... all I really want to do is kiss you everywhere.”

Bertolt gulps, wanting to reply that all he wants to do in return is get Reiner and tangled up in each other’s limbs, but he refrains.

“That sounds nice,” he whispers, “once we when get past ‘going to sleep for real’ and bodily injury.”

That gets a laugh out of Reiner, and he pulls Bertolt toward the bedroom. 

His bed is large and very inviting, tidily made up with a fluffy looking comforter, and Bertolt suddenly feels fatigue wash over him. In addition to his shift, the entire night has taken both a physical and emotional toll on him.

Reiner shamelessly strips down to a pair of boxers, while Bertolt remains fully dressed, hesitating even to kick his shoes off. But Reiner doesn’t comment on it as he climbs under the covers and motions for Bertolt to lie down next to him.

The pillows are fluffy and comfortable, and Bertolt feels like he’s floating on a cloud as he settles against one of them, still halfway propped up. Reiner flops onto his chest and turns his head on the pillow toward Bertolt, but his eyes are already shut. He’s more tired than Bertolt first realized.

“You okay?” Bertolt asks softly, indulging the urge to run gentle fingers down the line of Reiner’s back. There are bruises forming in a few different places, but Bertolt’s heart jumps into his throat when Reiner shifts to get closer and all the muscles contract. It’s always been obvious that he’s got an amazing body, even with his clothes on, but seeing it in the flesh is just off the charts.

“Mhm,” Reiner hums, half asleep. “Tired,” he says in a sleep-muddled voice. 

Bertolt nods, and finally lies down to get close.

He falls asleep quickly, listening to Reiner’s steady breaths that fast turn into soft snores, and Bertolt smiles a little at the reassuring sound.

When he wakes up, it feels like he’s been asleep for ten hours, even though he knows it must only be six.

For a moment, he doesn’t remember where he is—only that there’s a warm body next to him and he’s in a very comfortable bed—until opening his eyes to see Reiner’s face there, his mouth hanging open slightly as he sleeps.

Bertolt smiles faintly, studying his face, but then tenses as he takes an inventory of his limbs.

They’re lying face to face, pressed flush against each other—which is intimate and potentially embarrassing enough—but Bertolt also realizes he’s got his leg wedged in between Reiner’s legs, knee pressed right against his crotch.

He tries not to think about the fact that he can feel Reiner’s cock; how it feels like it’d probably a gorgeous cock and perfectly in proportion to his body. He’s afraid to move, though, in case of waking Reiner up and being caught in a humiliating situation.

He forces his mind to shut up and think of something unsexy... like the month-old yogurt he found in the back of the cafe fridge one day. It had mold on it and everything; perfect anti-sex fodder.

But then it’s all lost when he realizes a few moments later that Reiner’s arm isn’t just around his waist, but also halfway down the back of Bertolt’s pants.

It’s not even sexual, so much as intensely intimate, as if Reiner couldn’t stand having clothing in between them. He’s also still completely out, and obviously did it unknowingly.

And amidst his panic and embarrassment, Bertolt takes a moment to acknowledge the very prominent fact that he likes it. A lot.

Of course, just then, Reiner chooses to stir and make a sleepy noise. “Bertl?” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering open in a daze.

The morning light is filtering through the blinds, and if it weren’t for the panic, Bertolt can’t help but think that this is the absolute perfect way to wake up.

“Hey,” Bertolt replies, trying to smile and remain calm.

Reiner’s eyes open fully now, and he frowns minutely, as if concentrating on something.

“Um,” he finally says, not moving a muscle, “is my hand down the back of your pants?”

“Yup.”

“And... is your knee between my legs?”

Bertolt grunts and then repeats, “Yup.”

He’s not expecting the next question, when Reiner asks softly, “Do you want me to move?”

There’s a short silence, until Bertolt’s eyes widen and he blurts out, “No.”

That gets a radiant smile out of Reiner, as he moves forward to kiss Bertolt on the mouth. “Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice more affectionate than Bertolt’s ever heard another person sound, much less directed at him.

“‘Morning,” Bertolt returns breathlessly.

They stare at each other for another minute, until Bertolt gives into the urge, and moves his knee ever so slightly.

Reiner’s eyes immediately shut, and a look on concentration comes over his face.

“Fuck...” he whispers, rolling his hips minutely, “Bertl...”

Then Bertolt feels Reiner’s hand tense and push lower to squeeze gently at his ass; it’s more of a suggestive action than anything else. 

“I have to tell you something,” Reiner says suddenly, opening his eyes, even though they’re somewhat glazed over. “It’s not bad... but I need to tell you.”

Bertolt’s eyes widen, and he nods. “Okay,” he replies, “tell me whatever you want.”

“I’d never been to your coffee shop before,” Reiner says, his eyes wide now. “I pass it all the time. Actually, most of the people that go in there look like assholes.”

That earns a dry laugh out of Bertolt—since it’s true—and he nods at Reiner to continue.

“I went in that first day because I saw you through the window,” Reiner says, his voice quieter now. “And... I felt like I had to. Like the way you see someone you haven’t seen for years, and you find them in a crowd or something random.”

“Yeah,” Bertolt murmurs, pressing forward to kiss Reiner’s mouth quickly. “Me too. It just felt... different, the first time we spoke.” 

“I think we knew each other,” Reiner says finally, his face turning red, “some other time, somewhere. I don’t even believe in that stuff, but...”

“It feels like,” Bertolt whispers, “this isn’t the first time we’ve woken up like this.”

Reiner slowly nods his head, and gets closer. “I didn’t know I was looking for you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against Bertolt’s collar bones, “until I met you.”

“Same,” Bertolt agrees, running his hand slowly down Reiner’s side to rest at his waist.

“Do you have to work today?” Reiner asks, making himself comfortable as he settles his head under Bertolt’s chin. 

“No,” Bertolt replies, sighing happily.

“You want me to cook breakfast? I’m actually not a bad cook,” Reiner offers after a moment. His voice is full of something else now that wasn’t there before, and Bertolt thinks it might be love.

“Sure,” he says, smiling as he strokes his fingers over Reiner’s hair, “and I can make the coffee.”

“Extra hot,” Reiner laughs.

“Yeah,” Bertolt echoes. “Extra hot.”


End file.
